


The First Spring Rain

by BeepGrandCherokeeper



Series: The World Back Into Tune [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Bottom Hank, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Nature Magic, Oral Sex, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepGrandCherokeeper/pseuds/BeepGrandCherokeeper
Summary: The snow was gone now, fading as they walked, melting into trickles that turned into streams and ran through pale yellow grass, slowly stirring with the first breezes of spring. Hank had forgotten how good it felt to be welcomed with a breath of life. “Here,” he said, pulling Connor to a stop. Crouching, he gestured for Connor to follow suit and put his hands over Connor’s, pressing them palm-down to the earth. “Feel that?”Connor nodded, his fingers sifting through the rich dirt and sinking, further down, like he meant to grasp the roots. “There’s life here,” he said quietly, still pressing deeper. “Hiding under the cold.”“Waiting to come out."
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: The World Back Into Tune [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1494257
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	The First Spring Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly the sequel to my Hades + Persephone AU thread, featuring (my favorite!) bottom Hank. Thank you to everyone who's expressed love, made fanart, and encouraged me. I miss these two dearly, so it was nice to come back to the AU for a bit.

Connor spent three days with Hank in his house, on the tremulous cusp between the golden, heated end of summer and the first hints of fall. They barely left Hank’s bed, eager to make up for lost time, and all too soon they had to go. As they walked through Hank’s realm, Hank showed him some of his favorite places, and introduced him to dryads and naiads preparing for the last rush of life before they settled down to sleep. Connor was quiet through much of it. Happy when Hank asked, but contemplative. Anxious to get home, Hank thought, eager to see whether his absence had irrevocably ruined anything. Hank let it go. He let Connor pull him by the hand, walking faster, stopping only to let Sumo drink from a river.

“I’m testing a new system,” Connor said when Hank asked. “Things run themselves on the best of days, but I thought... if I put a few failsafes in place...”

Hank understood very little of the explanation. That was all right. He let Connor talk, glad to hear his voice and to watch the wrinkles in his face appear and disappear. When they reached the path down to the entrance of the underworld, brief flickers of spirits in an orderly line waiting to be sorted were the only thing that met them. They looked far less miserable than the ones Hank had seen on his first visit.

“Welcome home,” Hank said, squeezing Connor’s hand. 

Connor breathed a deep sigh of relief. He looked comfortable again, at ease and even happy. Hank wished he might look like that always, not just here, but he hoped with time...

“Can you hear them?” Connor asked. Hank strained his ears, catching only the tail end of whispers. 

“No,” he admitted. “Not really.”

“You’ll learn.” Connor lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of Hank’s, smiling against his skin. “They call you my spouse. My consort.”

Hank laughed at that, a joyful burst of sound that echoed and returned to them tenfold.

The seasons passed. Hank learned at Connor’s side, tended his dark garden and even slowly developed his burgeoning abilities to help manage the dead. His days were full of Connor and Cole, cold caverns no longer silent and golden fields full of places to run and play. With the help of a handful of the same jewels Hank had eaten, spilled on the ground, Sumo no longer avoided the places Cole inhabited. They were constant companions again, chasing each other in circles as Hank and Connor rested in the stalks of wheat and watched. 

As winter crept by, reaching its gradual end, the question of what to do next arose. Hank hated to leave Connor so soon, and thought with dread of repeating their goodbye from the year before. Connor said nothing. He seemed to think ignoring Hank’s inevitable departure was the answer. 

Finally, two days before Hank had decided he would go back, Connor turned to him on their bed and buried his face in Hank’s chest.

“It’s too hard,” he said, wrapping his arms around Hank’s stomach. Hank pressed his mouth to the top of Connor’s head. “I don’t want you to go.”

“It’s what has to be done,” Hank said. He stroked a hand down Connor’s spine. Light fingers played with Hank’s long hair, out of his sight. “I’ll be back.”

“In six months.”

“I don’t want to leave you, either, but spring has to start.”

Connor didn’t answer. Hank let him pout into his chest for a few long minutes, still toying with strands of Hank’s hair. He thought of his son with a soft pang of regret, eased some with the passage of time and the knowledge that Cole was safe and happy now. Then, he smiled.

“Connor.” 

Connor pulled back to look into Hank’s face, his mouth still a sour purse. Hank smoothed it away with a thumb. 

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“You fetched me in the autumn, and this world turned without you. Take me, this time. Stay with me a few days and help me bring the spring.” 

Connor didn’t reject him right away. He considered, eyes lost somewhere in the tangle of Hank’s beard, a furrow between his brow. “It went well last time,” he said finally. “My absence. It might not go well again.”

“That’s worry talking,” Hank said. 

“It’s a legitimate concern.”

“It’s a deflection.” He kissed Connor’s forehead. “What’s really stopping you?”

Connor hesitated, biting the inside of his lip before he spoke. “I haven’t seen spring in a very long time. Not since - my mother, you know.”

“You helped her, right?”

“I did what small things she allowed me. Our styles were very different.” He sighed, twirling Hank’s hair round his finger. “The flowers were my favorite. All those colors. And the warm breezes on cool nights.”

“Grow flowers with me,” Hank murmured, pitching his voice low. “Turn the heavens so the stars looking down on us are new and fresh faced. You brought me alive, a year ago. Do it again.”

Connor kissed him, then, greedily chasing Hank’s tongue with his own and panting like he meant to breathe Hank into his lungs. It wasn’t an answer. Not until Connor had settled again, tucked against Hank’s back and moving his hands in idle search for the places he’d left fading marks on Hank’s skin.

“You change my mind,” he said, breath stirring Hank’s hair, “when I think nothing ever will. How do you do that?” Hank caught Connor’s hand and threaded their fingers together. “Then you’ll come?”

“I will. When do we leave?”

Connor knew already what day Hank had planned to go, but the “we” changed everything. It made something in Hank’s heart flutter. 

They carried nothing with them when they went. It felt strange, leaving together with empty hands, the ghost of Cole’s arms still around their necks in his farewell embrace. The spirits lined up to file their way into the afterlife watched them walk, silent, apparently impassive. Hank still didn’t speak the language of the dead very well. He glanced at Connor, at the edge of unease in him, and asked, “Are they angry?”

“No,” Connor said. “Curious, maybe, and some of them are jealous. But...” He took Hank’s hand. “I’m afraid I don’t mind.”

“Blame me, if you have to,” Hank teased. “I’m too selfish to let you stay.”

Connor chuckled, more subdued than usual. “I’m being selfish, too.”

The specters disappeared once they were out of the crevasse, but they didn’t leave Connor’s thoughts for many miles more. As they walked, hand in hand, Hank left Connor to his thoughts until he felt a tug. Connor drifted behind, slightly, like something was pulling and trying to drag Connor home. Hank felt it, if he kept still, the same nagging urge he’d ignored for months a year before. He was good at ignoring that urge - Hank might have stayed in the underworld forever if Connor hadn’t made him want to be better. Connor had had less practice.

Slowing his pace, Hank bumped Connor’s shoulder with his own. “What did you see?” he asked. “The first time.” 

Connor blinked as he emerged from the depths of his thoughts, like walking into sunshine from the shade. “Not much that I remember. I was eager to reach you.”

Hank opened his mouth to speak and was interrupted by a booming bark from Sumo. They had reached the threshold of his lands. 

“There’s going to be a lot to do.” Hank bent down to retrieve a dead branch from the ground, still wet with melting snow. Grunting, he threw it hard as he could for Sumo. The dog ran after it, shaking the ground with his heavy footfalls and his barking. “Not like last time.”

“I don’t mind,” Connor said. “I’ll help. Teach me what you like.”

“You might remember parts of it. I don’t know how much has changed since...”

Hank winced at the slip, but Connor’s usual smile broke across his face, like ice fracturing across a frozen pond. “I’d be rusty regardless.”

The snow was gone now, fading as they walked, melting into trickles that turned into streams and ran through pale yellow grass, slowly stirring with the first breezes of spring. Hank had forgotten how good it felt to be welcomed with a breath of life. “Here,” he said, pulling Connor to a stop. Crouching, he gestured for Connor to follow suit and put his hands over Connor’s, pressing them palm-down to the earth.

Connor’s hands were always cold. Hank wondered if the thaw burned him, or if it felt like an embrace.

“Feel that?”

Connor nodded, his fingers sifting through the rich dirt and sinking, further down, like he meant to grasp the roots. “There’s life here,” he said quietly, still pressing deeper. “Hiding under the cold.”

“Waiting to come out,” Hank said. He stared at Connor. 

Connor didn’t notice. He was smiling, still, a faint and tender little smile. 

“For you. You bring it out.”

" _We_ will, this time.”

Hank took Connor’s hand again when they stood, smearing dirt across their skin, brown earth under Connor’s nails like a gardener’s fingers. 

They stopped at Hank’s house only to collect a few small things and to leave Sumo, still chewing on his branch and thumping his thick hairy tail. Hank carried poultices and herbs in the fabric of his tunic, stretched before him like an apron. It left his thighs mostly exposed. Connor behaved himself, though he obviously looked. Nothing distracted him from Hank’s careful instructions, or the way he wrote signs and sigils on thick tree trunks that shook and shivered with new leaf growth. Hank showed Connor where to scatter the dried sage, and where the flowers grew. It was hard work. The magic took energy, lots of it, and the world sapped it from him as spring spread like a ripple in a pond - from the epicenter out, fields slowly turning fresh green in a gentle wave.

Connor’s presence helped. Hank did more that day than he could have alone. By the time the sun set and a lingering chill settled in, Hank was exhausted. There were buds that needed to open, and nymphs to summon, and hibernating animals to wake, but all that would have to wait another day. Connor lifted Hank to his feet and carried empty jars inside. They poured into bed, too exhausted to do anything but pull off their clothes, and Hank fell asleep when his head hit the pillow.

He woke with the dawn. The first thing he saw was Connor’s dark hair, a slanted beam of sunlight illuminating strands of what looked like spun gold. With one heavy arm, he pulled Connor in closer against his chest and buried his nose in Connor’s curls, breathing in sweat and dirt. It smelled good on him. Natural, like it belonged.

“Hank?” Connor asked, in a groggy voice.

Hank shushed him. “Go back to sleep.” 

When Hank opened his eyes again, Connor was awake. He lounged in the beam of sunshine like a cat, soaking up warmth with a satisfied expression. It made Hank chuckle, his belly shaking against Connor’s side.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and rumbling. 

Connor turned a smile on him. “It’s so warm.” He stretched, arching his back. His pale skin practically glistened, each mole like a dark star in a faintly peachy sky. With all the sun they’d gotten yesterday, a crop of freckles had sprung up on his cheeks. “My robes might make me overheat.” 

Hank thought of the black fabric discarded by the side of the bed. He also thought of keeping Connor here all day, naked and shining, taking him apart with fingers and tongue and teeth, but there was still work to do.

“I could make you something new. Or let you borrow one of mine.” 

Connor liked the latter option. He told Hank so, rolling over to press himself against Hank’s chest and running his hands over Hank’s belly. They indulged in each other only a few minutes longer, charged tension choking the air so sweetly Hank had to fight for deep breaths. Finally, though, Hank pushed Connor out of bed and showed him the cabinet where he kept his spare clothes. Connor chose an old tunic, thin and worn and stained with dirt. It hung loose on him even when he cinched it with his belt, the shoulders always slipping down. 

“You’re a temptation,” Hank grumbled, pulling his own clothes on.

Connor laughed. “Fruit on a low hanging tree. I wouldn’t mind it if you bit.”

Hank slapped Connor’s ass and sent him out of the room. He seemed happy here, Hank reflected, tying his hair back. No longer so out of place, almost like the best parts of Connor’s past were coming alive in him. He’d left his coronet on a table, intentionally or not, and it felt like he’d left the heavy mantle of the underworld behind, too. 

“Connor?” Hank called, heading toward his kitchen. “There should be fresh bread in the-“

Hank froze at the sight of Connor’s stiff back, his hands clenched at his side. Beyond him, sitting at the wooden table, was an unexpected visitor placidly watching them both with mismatched eyes. 

“Good morning, Hank,” Markus said, voice even and calm like still waters. “Forgive me the intrusion, but we remembered that there was trouble with spring last year. Some of us thought you might need help.” He glanced at Connor. “I see someone else had the same idea.”

“Markus,” Connor said. His tone was ice cold, better fitting the halls of the underground than Hank’s warm and bright little house.

Hank edged around Connor’s body in the doorway, walking into the kitchen. He pulled the bread out - stale, after months sitting in the box - and passed a hand over it. “I’ll be fine this year,” he said, taking a knife to cut the fresh loaf. “But your concern is appreciated.”

“That’s not why he’s here,” Connor snapped.

Hank stiffened. Markus was his senior in every way, age and rank and respect. He had never thought to speak to him that way. 

“Who saw me?” Connor demanded. “Someone must have recognized me, if you came yourself.”

“Connor,” Hank murmured. Connor ignored him, glaring daggers at Markus.

“North,” Markus said finally. To Hank, he added, “We knew where you were going. We didn’t know this was why.” Standing, Markus folded his hands behind his back. “Could I speak to you outside, Hank? There’s something you should know.”

Connor sneered and opened his mouth, but Hank reached out and touched his arm before he could speak. Connor twitched like his first instinct was to flinch away. 

“I already know,” Hank said, squeezing Connor’s wrist. “Connor hasn’t kept anything from me.”

“Then you’re aware of what happened to Spring before you?” He phrased it delicately, like it was too shameful to say aloud.

Connor’s muscles tensed under Hank’s hand.

“Yes.” 

Markus raised an eyebrow, looking between them with an unfathomable expression, murky and confusing. Hank couldn’t guess what it was he saw - Connor luring Hank in to repeat the past, or Hank taking advantage of a lonely man with a pretty face. He wished now he’d said something. The gods might have been angry to hear that he’d good as married Connor in the dark garden, but it would have saved them this trouble. It would have saved Connor from the embarrassment and shame.

“I was there,” Markus said at last.

“To find the body,” Connor spat. “Not before.”

“You made no protest then. You admitted what you’d done.” Glancing at Hank, Markus said, “Her blood was still on his hands.”

“As mine would have been on hers.” Wrenching away from Hank’s grasp, Connor leaned across the table, fire spitting in the well of his brown eyes. “That would have been better for you, though. No more trouble from me, no one left to challenge you.”

Markus didn’t rise to the bait. He spoke as passively as ever. “The years have changed you. You seem quite proud of your matricide. When you left us, there was shame.” 

Hank thought of Connor’s tears as he confessed, the first time they made love. Markus couldn’t know the depths of Connor’s grief, or that Connor still ached both from the betrayal and his guilt. Hank knew just as well that Connor wouldn’t show it. All he did was bare his teeth in a grin. 

“It’s been several millennia,” he said. “Should I still be beating my chest?”

“You should be at your duties.” Markus looked at Hank again. “You’d find more suitable helpmates elsewhere. He shouldn’t have left the underworld.”

Connor scoffed, but Hank spoke first. “You didn’t notice,” he said, putting the knife down. “The last time he came here.”

Markus blinked.

“Connor stayed for a few days last fall,” Hank said. “He came to bring me home.”

That was what broke Markus’s facade. His face screwed up, indignation and anger finally showing. “This,” he said, waving a hand at the kitchen, “is your home. You’re the god of spring, and it is your duty to-“

“I’m doing my duty.”

“Then what good is he?” Markus frowned at Connor, eyes narrowed. “Why take him from his cage? He destroys, Hank; all he understands is death.” 

Connor trembled - whether with rage or despair, Hank didn’t know. He stepped closer, crowding in against Connor’s side to remind him that he was there, and slid a hand between his shoulder blades. 

“He’s my husband,” Hank said. “I go where he goes.”

Markus shook his head. “You can’t stay,” he said to Connor. “You don’t belong here.”

“I’ll be gone before the week is out.” Connor leaned against Hank’s bulk, just slightly enough that Hank felt him. An extra bit of support. “Had no one seen me, you never would have known.”

Resigned, Markus sighed. “We will discuss this. When the first thaw is over-“

“Sure,” Hank said. He moved his hand from Connor’s back to his waist, holding him tight. “For now, though, I’d appreciate it if you got the fuck out of my house.”

He’d pay for that later, but it was worth Connor’s smile. 

Markus left without another word, leaving the front door open behind him. He disappeared a few steps away, vanishing like he had never existed at all. 

Connor shook against Hank, trembling again, jaw clenched tight and a pinch between his brows. Hank wanted to wipe it all away. He settled instead for squeezing Connor’s hip. “Here,” he said, letting go to reach for the slices of bread, “there’s honey, too. Best honey I’ve ever tasted, a local demigod harvests it special for me.”

Connor ignored him. Hank felt Connor’s darkening mood like an oncoming storm. He didn’t know what to do. When his own black moods came on, the best thing for him was to be alone and to ride it out. He hurt no one that way, unintentionally with his thoughtlessness or intentionally with harsh words. Hank didn’t want Connor to be alone. Not ever again. 

“He talked about me like I was some kind of beast,” Connor said through his teeth.

“He doesn’t know you,” Hank said. “Not anymore. Maybe not ever.”

“I haven’t suffered enough to be absolved. I never will.”

Hank turned Connor to face him, like moving a stiff mannequin. Putting his hands on Connor’s shoulders, hands searing against Connor’s perpetually cold skin, he leaned in a hair to put them at direct eye level. “Markus doesn’t matter. None of them do. You don’t need to listen to anything they say.”

“They’re your kin,” Connor grumbles. 

“Only because I was made to be like them. They treat you like that, and I’ll never speak to any one of them again.”

Connor met his imploring gaze with a hard look, every inch the king he was down below. “You belong here.”

Hank couldn’t take it anymore. Stepping in, pressing even closer, he used two fingers to gently tip Connor’s head to the side. Connor went, expression still guarded, but he sighed when Hank kissed him under the corner of his jaw.

“I love you,” he said, whispering it into Connor’s skin. “I belong with you.” 

He’d stay with Connor for hours if they didn’t get going. Connor looked eager for a distraction, too, work to occupy his mind and keep him from turning Markus’s harsh words over in his mind. Hank had plenty of work to provide.

Hank whistled for Sumo to follow them outside. “Look,” he said, squeezing Connor’s hand. “Sumo has his jobs, too. Go on, boy.”

Sumo waited for a last pat behind the ears before he took off, barking, making the loudest din imaginable. He stuck his head down holes and leaned up against trees, calling the animal kingdom home. Connor finally broke and laughed aloud when Sumo trotted back to them proudly with a family of bears behind him, two cubs on unsteady legs and their mother - just barely bigger than the dog. Hank pointed the bear toward the river where she’d find fish spawning, and they bade them goodbye. 

“What a good dog,” Connor crooned. 

Sumo flopped over in the shade, panting and looking very pleased with himself. The whole episode usually took Sumo an hour or so, which Hank would spend tending to something else, but undoubtedly he’d been showing off for Connor. 

“Come on,” Hank said, wrapping an arm around Connor’s shoulder. “We’ll call the dryads and collect offerings. Hear some prayers. Humans probably know spring’s returning by now.”

Mostly, the offerings were little things. Stalks of dried grain, pressed flowers, a cut of meat. Sometimes they found notes attached, written in varieties of hands. Connor read one aloud. “‘Please,’” he said, “‘my old mother is failing and we need the herbs that grow over the hill to grow closer; she cannot make the journey.’ Is this your purview?”

“I don’t know.” Hank dug into the folds of his tunic, calling the herbs they needed to his fingertips with an extra bit of magic. He left it in the offering bowl in place of the faded headdress which the humans had left for him. “Not every prayer gets answered. But if I can do something, I try.” 

Connor took the headdress from his hands, running his fingers over the few precious stones still in their place. The rest must have fallen out years before.

“My mother,” he said slowly, “treated spring like gardening. The fact that it helped humans never meant much to her.” 

Hank winced. “It didn’t mean much to me before, either. Not before you.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You’re a good man... and you had your son.”

Cole. Hank missed him all the time, a constant tear in the corner of his heart. He thought about it less now than he had the year before, but it still hurt. 

When they left, Hank vanished the headdress away to where he kept the trinkets and baubles he’d been given. The fresh beginnings of a bush sprouted outside the farmhouse gate.

At the end of the path, the dryad Hank secretly thought of as his favorite waved them over. Her short yellow hair, paler than the first rays of the spring sun, ruffled in the breeze. “Here,” she said, pouring a pile of notes into Hank’s hands. “Everything they left for you is already at your house.” Her eyes darted to Connor, one eyebrow raising as her lip quirked. “The rumors are true, then?”

“Kara,” Hank said, only the gentlest hint of warning. 

“My name is Connor.” 

Connor stuck out his hand to shake hers, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Whether she recognized his name, or even knew the underworld existed, Hank didn’t know. Still, she took Connor’s hand and nodded. 

“Word must travel fast,” he added. 

Kara rolled her shoulders in a good-natured shrug. “It’s good you’re here,” she said. “After what happened last year-“

Hank cleared his throat and made the prayers disappear, depositing them in an untidy pile on his kitchen table. It was awkward enough, being talked about when you were standing right there. 

“Sorry, m’lord,” Kara said. Her affectionate smile ruined the apology. “It’s just nice to see you happy. You deserve it. Nice to meet you, Connor.”

She patted Hank’s arm as she left, returning to the embrace of the tall, sturdy tree she called her home.

“Do you need to answer those now?” Connor asked.

Hank looked up at the sky, pure blue barely spoiled by white wisps of cloud. That would need to change.

“Nah,” he said, “but we ought to get home. First storm of the season’s overdue.”

“Storm?” Connor asked. He looked up, too. The sleeve of Hank’s tunic slipped, exposing his skin. 

“You’ll see,” Hank said. He kissed the round of Connor’s shoulder, in the center of a cluster of freckles. “We’ve gotta cook it up first.”

“Sure,” Connor laughed, tipping his head to bury his nose in Hank’s hair. “All of this is so different from what I remember.”

“It probably is different,” Hank said, taking Connor’s hand. They walked back together, slowly strolling through green fields and fresh flowers. “Nobody told me how to do the job when I got here. Kind of had to make it up on my own.”

Connor nudged him. “It’s wonderful.” 

Sumo greeted them with a few thumps of his tail as they walked up. He panted, tongue lolling, and lounged in his shady spot. The temperature had been slowly increasing all day, climbing up from a borderline uncomfortable chill to the warm embrace of the sun. 

“We need hot water,” Hank said, pushing open the door for Connor. “Some vapor, a few herbs.”

“Sounds like soup.”

Hank laughed, pulling out the pot he used for the spring rains as Connor stoked up a flame. “I guess it’s the same principle. Old habits die hard, you know.”

“Old habits. You sound like a human.” 

Connor intended it as half a joke, a little barb, but Hank hummed. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time.

“I believed I was, once. Didn’t know what powers I had. Kept to myself, never met anybody like me until after...” He waved a hand. “Didn’t get many details then, either.”

“Then you’re here because of me.” 

Connor handed Hank what he asked for, watching as the mixture slowly bubbled up. There was no steam yet.

“Think of it like this,” Hank said, bending over the pot. It didn’t smell quite right. “If things were different, we would never have met.” 

He ducked outside to grab a pinch of dirt, feeling Connor’s eyes follow him as he went. Part of him had hoped this might be an ordinary day, one unshrouded by their histories and the weight of guilt... but Markus took that option from them. If it ever existed. He and Connor both tended toward melancholy if left alone long enough.

Connor sighed. “Is it worth it?”

Hank threw the dirt into the pot. Getting closer. “Is what worth it?”

“The heartache. The pain.”

“To be where I am now?” Hank gave Connor a firm look. “Yes.” Determined to head off any more self-reflection, Hank beckoned Connor over to stand with him, over the pot. “Smell that.”

Connor bent over, closed his eyes, and inhaled as the water began to steam. “It’s familiar,” he said, taking another deep breath. “I can’t place it.”

“Petrichor,” Hank said. “Rain on dry earth. Took me forever to get the recipe exactly right.”

“When is it ready?”

“Just about.” Thunder boomed overhead. Sumo boomed as well, a noisy bark like he wanted to play. “We have to take it outside for the full effect.” 

Once steam was rising from the pot in thick clouds, Hank wrapped his and Connor’s hands in a swathe of magic to protect them from the heat. They carried it out together. 

“Hold that,” Hank said. He dragged his foot through the dirt, marking a sigil with a rounded indent in the center. “Here.” 

They set the pot down in its place, steam now gusting toward the sky in a hurry. Tt was getting dark, everything going muted and grey in the overcast light.

“Let’s go,” Hank said, ushering Sumo inside the house. “We have a few minutes.”

“Where?”

Hank just grinned. 

He had held Connor’s hand quite a bit, recently. Hank liked the feeling of it, the freedom of permission to touch and be touched. It was always like that with Connor, of course, he never felt that his affection would be rejected... but it was easier here. There was less between them above ground.

As they weaved through trees, getting farther from the gathering storm’s epicenter, Connor’s hand in Hank’s felt like a reminder. “I’m here,” it said. “You have me just a little while longer.”

Neither of them could stay in one place forever, now. He wanted to make the most of it. 

“I never thought about this place,” Hank said as an introduction, holding up a low branch for Connor to duck under. The trees were thick here. “Not until after I came back last year. I’d come here if I was missing you.”

Connor dropped his hand as he emerged into the clearing. A small clear pond sat in the middle of a copse, cleared out in a neat circle. The surface of the water rippled with the wind, slowly whipping up to a strong breeze. It tugged at their clothes, made the branches creak and leaves rustle. They were surrounded by sound. 

“It’s like the cavern,” Connor said, taking a step toward the pond.

Hank nodded at his back. “Where we met. No crystals, though.”

Connor walked until the water lapped at his bare feet. It was probably cold, but he didn’t flinch. “Only the stars,” he said.

“On clear nights.” 

The sky opened up, then, starting in a drizzle that sprinkled Hank’s forehead. Lightning struck a few miles away, hitting the earth and electrifying it. Hank felt it ripple out to where he stood. It wouldn’t hurt either of them.

“I used to pretend,” Connor said. 

His voice was soft. Hank nearly lost the sound of it as the raindrops got heavier and the wind picked up into a howl, tossing the ends of his hair. Edging closer, he waited for Connor to continue.

“When I missed the world I’d lost, I’d go to that cavern.” Connor laughed. “I’d pretend the crystals were stars.” 

A fat droplet struck Hank on the top of his head, hard. The deluge began. In seconds they were both soaked, the fabric of Hank’s borrowed tunic getting heavy. The shoulders slipped, as they’d been doing all day, but this time Connor shrugged out of them and waded into the pond. The muscles of his back stood in stark relief. Only his belt kept his modesty in place.

Connor stopped when the water was above his knees. He ran his fingers over the surface of the water, tipped his head up to feel the rain on his face. It was too much. Hank knew, he felt it in his heart as keenly as Connor did. He knew what was torturing Connor, even as he tried to enjoy the first rainfall he’d experienced in what had to be countless years.

“Sweetheart,” he said, reaching out an arm. “Let’s go back. We don’t have to stay.” 

Connor turned to look at Hank, opening his eyes in a squint against the water dripping down his cheeks. His wet curls were plastered against his forehead.

“Hank,” he said, his voice breaking.

It wasn’t just rain water on his face. Connor was crying.

“I want to stay.”

“Connor,” Hank tried to say, but the wind ripped the breath from his lungs. The first riot of the storm would end soon, and he wasn’t afraid, but it made this conversation — the way Connor wept in front of him — feel that much more dire. Like the world might shake apart. Maybe it would. Maybe the force of Connor’s grief might split the earth and send its inhabitants tumbling below, where the underworld waited for them with open arms. Then, at least, they could be together.

Hank didn’t want that. He wanted joy and sorrow, winter and spring. 

Wincing against the water’s chill, Hank waded in after Connor. He cupped Connor’s cheek in a hand and pressed their foreheads together. “Baby,” he said, feeling Connor’s answering shudder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I’d forgotten how much I... I miss it. I miss running with the nymphs, and sneaking off to see the humans, and hiding in the wildflowers. I miss-” He coughed, a little, wiping roughly at his eyes. 

Hank brushed his hand away, gently tended to the tears, and pushed Connor’s sopping hair from his face. “You miss the life.” 

Connor nodded. Then he snorted, flushing a faint pink and looking down at the pond. “It’s stupid,” he said. “I know where my home is. I couldn’t leave my duty. But I...”

“Your home,” Hank murmured, “is with me. Just like mine’s with you.”

“Then neither of us can be happy.”

“I’m happy now.” Hank kissed his neck, too wet to get any traction, then down to his shoulder. Connor pulled back to give him an incredulous look, but Hank smiled. Palming Connor’s ribs, he said, “Life’s complicated, Con. I can be happy and sad at the same time.”

“It’s bittersweet.”

“But it’s still sweet.”

The roar and thud of the rain and wind was slowly dying down. It still poured, but peals of thunder turned to rumbles, and the lightning faded away. Hank tried to repress a shiver - they were both soaked, like they’d been dunked. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor said, taking Hank’s face in his hands. Hank let himself be held, wrapping his arms around Connor’s bare waist above the belt. “I’ve ruined the day more than once.”

Hank tipped his head to kiss Connor’s palm. “You’re adjusting. Of course that’s hard.”

“Could we do this?”

Hank raised an eyebrow for clarification.

“Every year. Could I... come with you, to start spring. I couldn’t stay long, maybe a week if we lead up to it. And then... I could come back for you. In the fall.”

“Are you okay leaving so often?” 

Connor hummed thoughtfully. He ran his thumbs through Hank’s beard, scratching against the grain. “I could learn to be okay with it. It’s frightening. But I don’t want to have you only when the weather turns, down in the caverns. I want to have you here. You’re different here.”

“So are you.” Hank kissed him, holding Connor’s wrists to keep his hands in place. It was a chaste peck, but it felt like an accord, the mark at the bottom of an agreement Hank was all too happy to sign. “I want to be together as much as we can. If you’re fine with it, I am too.” 

Connor leaned in a second time, opening his mouth against Hank's in a messy kiss. There was no urgency to it, nothing but the desire to seek and give comfort, but Hank felt a fire building in his belly just the same. Connor still kissed like he wanted to devour him. 

"You're cold," he said against Hank's lips. His hands slid down to Hank's neck, to his shoulders, sneaking underneath the tunic.

"And very wet," Hank added.

"Is there anything more that needs to be done today?"

"Nothing that can't wait."

Connor bit Hank's lower lip. 

They made their way home, stumbling through damp grass and dodging freshly formed puddles. The rain never let up, not even when Hank paused to pick up the pot and carry it inside. Connor kissed him again before he found the pot’s usual place. It was forgotten on the table. As they passed Sumo, snoring next to a fire Hank didn't remember lighting - Sumo had his own magical surprises, sometimes - Connor laughed throatily and held up a finger to his lips. 

"He worked so hard today," he whispered, pulling Hank into his bedroom. "We ought to be quiet."

"Dog could sleep through a storm," Hank grumbled. His hands were mapping Connor's chest, tracing his old scars and rubbing warmth back into his skin. Two pebbled nipples begged for his attention, so he gave one a quick pinch. "He probably did sleep through the storm." 

With a wet slap, Hank's tunic was off Connor's body and laying in a corner of the room. The belt was gone, too, a sure sign that Connor had done some small magic in his impatience. It made Hank shiver.

"Take off your wet things," Connor said, feigning concern. "You'll freeze."

Eager hands went to Hank’s sides, tugging at his clothes before Hank could even try to take them off. It was bizarre to think Connor been crying so shortly before this, that he’d had a long, hard day dealing with everything he tried to bury. Or... maybe it wasn’t, really. Maybe Connor was trying to cover it up. Hank still saw an echo of that pain in his eyes, could sense the heartache he so clearly felt.

“Connor,” Hank murmured, grabbing his hands where he pulled at Hank’s tunic, “slow down.”

Connor all but snarled. Hank tried to ignore how it made him twitch. 

“I want you,” he said, gently settling Connor’s open palms on his own skin, “but not like that. Go slow.”

He wouldn’t let Connor lose himself in this, not yet. Not when all it would do was stave off unhappy feelings until later. They could manage this if they faced it together.

“Husband,” Hank murmured. 

Connor visibly softened. His hands no longer clutched, they just held. He groaned, quietly, leaning in to breathe the air from Hank’s open mouth as he slowly worked the tunic up. “Husband,” he whispered, retreating only to tug Hank’s clothes over his head and throw them away. Hank fell backward onto his bed, tugging Connor with him. Connor’s knees landed on either side of Hank’s hips, perched in the throne of his lap, leaning back against Hank’s thighs.

“Do you remember,” Hank asked, hands wandering up Connor’s chest, “the first time we did this?”

“Vividly.” Connor bore down a little against Hank’s groin, teasing them both with the memory and the sensation. Hank ached, inside and out.

“You made me promises.”

“Oh?” Still writhing in his lap, Connor leaned down slowly, his breath tickling the hair on Hank’s chest. 

“You said you’d get on your knees for me.”

Connor hummed, his tongue darting out to touch a nipple. Hank bucked as Connor traced over it.

“I’ve done that,” he said, blowing cool air over the wet trails he’d left behind. “Many times.”

“And you’d spill down my throat.” 

A shake of silent laughter left Hank groaning even before Connor switched sides, using his teeth this time to leave Hank’s pec red and sensitive.

“I’ve done that, too. What’s left?”

Hank knew Connor knew. He felt him stirring with interest against his belly. 

Hank cupped Connor’s jaw in his hands, urging him up and towards Hank’s mouth. “Fill me,” he said, nudging his hips against Connor’s to drive home his point. “Take me apart. Fuck me and make me yours again.”

Connor whined. He didn’t ask if Hank was sure, or if that was what he really wanted. They knew each other, sure as if they’d been together for thousands of years rather than a year. Instead, Connor slid off Hank’s lap onto the mattress and burned through him with a heated stare.

“Oil?” he asked.

Hank nodded. He had oil that would do in the kitchen - a useless waste of his magic, but he didn’t think Connor would bear the interruption. He called for it instead, reaching under the pillow to pull out the bottle.

Connor pounced on him, holding his arm in place to kiss at its underside. “Ugh,” Hank laughed as Connor mouthed his way down, teasing tender skin that never got much attention. “You’re disgusting, Connor.”

Connor hummed and kissed the side of Hank’s pec, back to his nipples, sore for attention and arguably one of Connor’s favorite parts of Hanks body. 

“I love you,” he murmured, hands roving and palming at Hank’s stomach. 

Hank tossed the oil down to land somewhere around Connor’s knees and threaded his hands in Connor’s hair. It took a moment to persuade him up, but he went eagerly when he saw Hank’s kiss-bitten mouth. They kissed blindly for some time, groping at each other haphazardly, but eventually Connor began to slide down again. He bypassed Hank’s chest with an aura of regret, trailed his tongue on Hank’s stomach, and planted a kiss at the tip of his cock before he traveled on. 

“Oh,” Hank said as Connor took Hank’s knees over his shoulders and hoisted them out of the way, looking at what he revealed like it was his prize. “Fuck yes, honey, please...”

Connor groaned, leaning his forehead against Hank’s legs. He felt warm for the first time all day.

He took his time, trailing his tongue and teeth down Hank’s legs, starting at his knees. Hank had asked to go slow, had wanted him present, and now he wasn’t quite regretting it... but he shuddered under Connor’s onslaught of attention. Reaching for Connor’s hair, he said, “Baby-“ 

Connor left his thighs with a speed that surprised Hank, making him jump. Letting Hank’s legs fall, he took hold of Hank’s wrists and pinned them down to the bed.

“Let me.” 

He said it like it was a request, even as he held Hank in place with all his considerable strength. 

“You can’t-“ Hank tries to say, almost wheezing. “You can’t hold me down like this and get your mouth on me.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Connor found a way. He was smart, smarter than Hank had ever been, and when he had a cause he devoted himself to it completely. Still, Connor nodded. “I can’t. So you’ll keep your hands away, for now."

Hank wanted him so badly he felt like his tongue might turn to lead in his mouth, heavy and useless. His beautiful husband. In control, like he was meant to be.

“Do that for me?” Connor asked. 

“Anything,” Hank said without thinking. Connor guided his hands to his sides, held them as Hank dug his fingers into the bedding. Hank gasped for air. “I’d do anything you asked.”

“I know,” Connor said. He kissed him quickly, and then sat up to push Hank’s legs out of his way. “You’ll be good.” 

At the first wet touch to his hole, Hank clenched his hands so tight he wore at the fabric of his sheets. There’d be holes in them before long, if Connor played him the way he did - like a song he loved on an instrument he knew, inside and out. Hank shut his eyes tight. He didn’t want the temptation of Connor’s curls, the slope of his back. He wanted to be good, to bend when Connor pushed, move where he asked, to give himself over. It was easier like this. He felt more. He felt wanted, and alive, thrumming on the mattress, growing like the storm. 

“Hank,” Connor whispered, barely audible. His tongue went up the underside of Hank’s thigh; his hand sneaked in the opposite direction. He didn’t push far. Just a fingertip, wet with what might have been Connor’s own saliva.

Hank bore down like he might keep him there forever. 

“Yes,” he said, still keeping his eyes closed. “Connor, please-“

“You asked,” Connor said, a little louder. His mouth vanished from where it had been on Hank’s thigh and reappeared quickly, a hot breath skirting over Hank’s slick skin. “I’m giving you what you asked."

“Slow,” Hank said aloud, his voice almost breaking.

“Yes.”

Connor licked where his finger still rested, just barely hooked around Hank’s rim, a beautiful preliminary to the greater stretch, the better pleasure. When his tongue dipped inside, Hank heard his sheets tear. Connor pulled away long enough to retrieve the oil, judging by the sound of a bottle being uncorked, but Hank barely had time to think of it when he came back in full force. Driving his tongue in deep, Connor breathed and moaned like Hank was the finest meal he’d ever tasted. Hank hung on to the tatters of his sheets, ravaged by the strength of a god held in stasis, afraid to open his eyes and break the spell. He barely even breathed, only making shallow sounds that were fucked out of him. Connor licked an outward spiral and bit at the flesh of Hank’s ass.

“Here,” he said. The oil drizzled out over Hank’s skin, trickling down like a gentle tease until it touched his already wet skin. It was so cold it almost stung, making him wince. Connor sighed at the sight, taking his clever fingers and rubbing at the slick until it warmed, massaging it in. 

“That’s it,” Hank whispered. “Connor-“

He opened his eyes, finally, when Connor touched his hands. Part of him wished he hadn’t. Connor’s still-damp hair curled against his forehead, his eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open. He was a vision. Ephemeral, lovely, and his. When Connor brushed the divots between his fingers, he released his death grip on the bed and let him in, twining them together. Through their joined hands, a little twinge of magic tentatively passed down and into the sheets, mending the tears.

“Good,” Connor said. “So good.”

“You-“ Hank panted, fighting the urge to cling when Connor took his hands away, reclaiming the oil. “You’re good. You’re always so good.”

Connor bit his lip, but otherwise didn’t respond. He poured oil out over his fingers, and Hank watched them disappear before he felt them. One finger went too quickly. Hank was greedy for it and a little loose with Connor’s earlier work, it didn’t satisfy him long beyond the initial stretch and satisfaction of being touched inside. 

“Please,” Hank sighed. He left his hands on his chest, tweaking his own nipples. 

Two, then, and even with Connor’s slim hands, Hank began to feel something closer to what he was expecting. He bucked and made a show of his desire, both because it felt good and because he wanted to see Connor sweat. His husband loved him. They were mad for each other. 

“How much longer?” Hank asked, chasing Connor as he withdrew a bit. The movement edged him up into Connor’s lap, his bony ankles digging into Hank’s ass. Connor adjusted him with one hand so that they were both comfortable. Hank could feel Connor’s erection brushing against him. 

"Just a little more." Connor spread his fingers apart inside Hank. Hank let out a shaky breath, feeling sweat beading on his forehead, but Connor's noise was louder. "You feel - hot. The pressure-"

Hank clenched purposefully, pulling another of Connor’s sounds free. "Don't fall apart on me baby," he teased. "You've got a lot left to do."

He weakly punctuated himself with a loud warbling moan as Connor curled his fingers up, hitting him right where he needed it.

"Keep your hands to yourself," Connor warned, as Hank reached for his hair. 

"Still doing that?" he asked, letting his hand fall.

"Until I say otherwise."

Connor kept working him until Hank couldn't take it anymore, until he needed to scream or to grab or to knock Connor over and sink on his cock himself - but just as he considered it seriously, Connor stopped. Hank wanted something, anything, desperate even in that several second pause for Connor to be touching him - and when Connor laughed a raspy, sighing laugh, he knew he'd been running his mouth without meaning to.

The first touch of Connor's cock, the first gentle nudge, left him speechless. Connor breathed out as Hank gasped, trading air between them. He went slow - so fucking slow that Hank was regretting asking him for it, wishing he'd settled for an angry, hurt, passionate fuck - but then he wouldn't have Connor's hands on him like this, stroking, soothing. As he sank home, Connor whispered. It was mostly inaudible, quiet words meant only for himself, but Hank felt the impact of them anyway. Energy crackled between them, whatever power Connor spoke into the world aimlessly lingering in their bed. It made Hank's fingers spark. 

Connor's skin brushed Hank's as he ran out of room, nowhere left to go. He made to retreat, gearing up for the first true thrust, but Hank grabbed at him so he would stop. His fingers slipped. "Connor," he breathed, pawing at his back, his thighs, anywhere he could reach. "Wait."

"Are you hurt?" Connor asked. He stilled, settling back in so they rested together. Hank was fully impaled on his cock, fuller than he ever had been before, and even that sensation had him sweating.

"No," he said. He bore down, making his insides tighten, and Connor bit his lip. Hank wished Connor would bite his lip instead, tear him to pieces with the tip of his tongue, but he was preoccupied. That could wait for another time. "I just - I wanted... Fuck, baby, you feel so good."

"So do you," Connor said. He rocked them both, still fully seated. "Do you want me to stay?"

Hank sighed, "Yes." 

Connor pushed even closer, moving his hips in a stuttering circle, It was good, it was so good - but Hank wanted something more. He needed more. "No," he said, grabbing again for Connor's hips. "Give me everything. All of you."

"Husband," Connor said again. He spread his hands and caressed his way up Hank's stomach to his chest, lingering briefly in a few places before he planted his hands on either side of the bed. An anchor. "I've never given you any less."

He pulled out an inch and sank back in. The next stroke was longer, stronger, each increasing until Connor nearly withdrew before every thrust. 

Hank remembered Connor's reprimand about touching, but his hands wouldn't stay. He wanted to hold something, to tear it apart. Connor must have wanted the same. He shuddered and paused, half inside Hank, and adjusted his weight so he could grab one of Hank's wrists. 

"Touch me," he said, bringing Hank's hand to his chest. 

When Hank pinched a nipple, Connor slammed into him with bruising force. It was too late to regain any control. Hank's hands went everywhere they could reach, petting down Connor's flanks, trailing back up his own body. The only thing he avoided was his cock, slapping his own stomach with each thrust. Connor didn't touch it, so neither would he, and in truth he wouldn't need it. The thought would have embarrassed him if he'd had the room for it, but he felt himself careening toward the edge, pushed along in unsteady waves by Connor's body against his, his cock hitting him where he wanted it most. It felt like paradise. It was paradise, lying in his own bed with his husband buried in him, wrecking him from the inside out. 

He wished, for a moment, that they could stay like this for the rest of time - no duties or concerns, nothing but this joining until the stars burned out. It couldn't be. And yet, Hank didn't mind. This was what they had. He was happy.

“Con," he grunted, just to hear Connor's bitten off whimper. Connor had his eyes screwed shut, head bowed. He looked as devastated as Hank felt.

"Please," he whined. A tear escaped and landed on Hank's thigh. 

Hank planted his feet on the bed and lifted himself up, just enough to give Connor more leverage. He couldn't hold this position for long, but luckily for them both, they didn't need much time. A few more thrusts and a long, almost painful drag of Connor's cock were enough. Panting, struggling to make sense through the haze enveloping him, Hank finally wrapped a hand around his cock. He nearly cried out from the intensity of it, already in the throes of an orgasm, and either the sight or the sound or Hank's clenching muscles did Connor in, too. He felt it. Even as his face went hotter than a fire, Hank indulged in the satisfaction of a job well done, of a lover well satisfied. 

When Connor slipped free, falling forward to breathe heavily in the crook of Hank's shoulder, semen trickled out after. Hank moaned aloud. 

Once he'd recovered his breath, his heart pounding heavily under Connor's ear, Hank trailed his hand up Connor's spine and over the curve of his neck. He threaded his fingers through Connor's curls, almost dry now. Connor moved against him in a slow imitation of a thrust. 

"Is it always that good?" Hank asked, gently using his leverage to move Connor's head. He kissed his forehead, tasting sweat - and he kissed it again, and again, pressing Connor fiercely to him. Connor hummed.

"I enjoy it," he said. "Well enough."

Hank nipped him on the nose. Laughing, Connor squirmed away from Hank's tightening embrace, dodging his mouth. They teased each other for a few moments, questing fingers and biting kisses, but before long, Hank pulled Connor in and tucked his head under his chin. 

"It was fucking something. You were good." 

Connor yawned. His lips brushed Hank's skin. "You too. Good for me. Next time-"

"Next time? You're so sure there'll be another."

"With how you begged me?" Snuggling closer, Connor dropped a final kiss on his skin. "I'd be surprised if you didn't ask for it again tomorrow." 

Hank woke up alone the next morning. 

He was sticky and sore, and surely disheveled, but he felt... well. He felt like he'd been fucked within an inch of his life, and he had. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he slowly made his way out of bed and dug for something to wear. The clothes he'd let Connor borrow the day before were draped over the windowsill, as well as Connor's usual black robes. Besides the small instances of tidiness, of which Hank definitely hadn't been the cause, there was no sign of Connor at all. 

He wouldn't worry. Connor would never leave without telling him goodbye, and as heavy a sleeper as he was, Hank wouldn't sleep through something drastic - if the other gods would do something drastic. They almost certainly wouldn't.

Despite himself, Hank thought of Cole. 

In his hurry to leave, Hank settled for a thin cloth hastily draped, wrapped, and pinned in place. Scenarios played through his head, each worse than the last, until finally he rushed out his front door certain that something awful had happened. He'd put on his sandals, ready to run if needed - but Connor was there. 

Leaning against a tree trunk, he looked like he was dozing. He'd draped one of Hank's cloaks over himself and that was all, his bare side exposed. Hank studied him a long moment, breathing deeply until he felt he could face him. Fear had nearly put tears in his eyes. 

"Hey," he said as he approached.

His voice cracked, a little, but Connor didn't seem to notice. Without opening his eyes, he put a hand on the grass beside him. "Sorry to have left you. I wanted to watch the sun rise."

Hank sighed. "You could have woken me up."

"You looked peaceful."

Sinking to his knees, Hank arranged himself on the grass so that they were close, but Connor had his space. Who knew what he'd been out here thinking. Hank had been foolish enough to hope that with their lovemaking, Connor's sorrows might have left him. He knew better, but the hope came anyway.

Connor still surprised him, though. Leaving his tree trunk, he leaned against Hank instead, tucking himself in so that the stripe of his bare skin burned Hank even through the fabric of his himation. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Hank said truthfully. Connor made an apologetic sound, but he shook his head. "Worth it. Might have liked a second round this morning, but..." He gestured to the fields around them. "Don't really feel like giving the whole world a show."

"I wanted-"

"To watch the sun rise." Hank sighed. "You said. I guess I can't begrudge you that."

"I don't get to see many of them. Although... I might have waited for you. Is that why you're upset?"

"'M not upset," Hank lied. He shouldn't have bothered. Connor nudged him. Fighting to find the right words, Hank spoke slowly. "We only have so many mornings together."

Connor stiffened against him, and Hank half wished he hadn't said anything at all. He wanted - he'd gone over what he wanted so many times in the last few days, he bored even himself. It was time to stop thinking, to stop pushing away the hardest conversations, the most hurtful emotions. Their lives were good, but they would be hard, too. Better to stop pretending.

"You meant what you said. About staying."

"I was miserable, Hank. We both know I can't."

"That's why you were miserable. Being here..." Hank wrapped an arm around Connor's shoulder, pulling him in tighter. Connor relaxed against him incrementally. "Being here hurts you."

"It isn't you-"

"I never said it was me. Blame it on... I don't know. Markus, your memories. Be honest with me." Tracing the moles on Connor's arm, constellations he was well on his way to learning by touch, he cleared his throat before he spoke. "Does it hurt more than it helps?"

Connor wouldn't answer. Not for a long time. Finally, he wriggled out from under his arm. Letting out a gusty sigh, he flopped backwards into the grass. "I think that would change with time."

Hank tore his gaze away from the divot between Connor's groin and his thigh, on display where the fabric had flipped aside. His skin there was pale, unblemished, but Hank had meant what he said about not indulging out of doors - at least, not in this mood. The sight of Connor laying spread beside him was almost enough to make him change his mind. Almost.

"That's not a no."

"No." Connor plucked a blade of grass and lifted it to the sky, studying it. "It's not a no."

Hank shook his head. "I want you here. I want you. But if we-"

"What was it like, Hank? The winter."

Hank blinked away his surprise. "You... you don't know?"

"I didn't see it."

"Con, you have to have seen winters. Before-"

"I don't mean those." Connor threw the blade of grass aside. He was cool again, pretending to be composed. It was a pale imitation of his regal facade, and Hank hated to see it. "I mean last year's. Your winter."

“I - but you-“ Hank swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “You knew. I thought you-“

“I had secondhand information. Stories whispered to me by ghosts. Human suffering is variable, Hank, the same incident might have thousands of stories around it. I want yours.” 

Hank still felt guilty. It ate at him, now, made him want to be better than he was - someone the humans deserved. They had forgiven him, he thought, but whether they should have done so? He couldn’t say.

“It was...” he began. He had to clear his throat, twice. 

Connor watched him with an unforgiving expression. He wouldn’t let Hank wriggle out of this one.

“I was grieving,” Hank said, as if that was an excuse. “Spring had barely started, crops were just planted and babies being born, and... the frost took most of them.”

“Was it worse,” Connor asked, “than the usual winters?”

“They’re not mild here, but... yes.”

“And if you left.” Connor spread his arms out in the grass. “If you abandoned this world, even after you brought spring in, even if it were an act of love - would it happen again?” 

Hank didn’t know. He hated to say it, but he had never neglected his duties before he lost Cole. There was no way of being sure without trying it again. He couldn’t do that. 

“It’s possible.”

“And they would hate you.”

Hank thought of the offerings left to him, the prayers. “They would.”

“Our happiness doesn’t matter to them, Hank. Not in the long run.” Connor closed his eyes. “They feel things differently than we do. Humans don’t live long, but they make impacts we couldn’t dream of. And they tear down gods who don’t serve their purpose.”

“I thought you love humans,” Hank said, a little taken aback. “You make them sound like monsters.”

“I do.” Reaching out, Connor brushed his fingers against Hank’s clothed hip. “And they are. Nothing is so simple as we’d like, is it?”

Hank put his hand over Connor’s. “No.” 

The morning swelled around them. They sat in silence and listened to the wind whisper over the fields. In time, Connor made a soft sound and brought Hank’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I had a point,” he whispered, lips brushing skin. 

“I can’t leave this place forever,” Hank said. “Not even to be with you.”

“And I can’t stay.” Connor rolled to sit up, taking Hank’s hand with him. “It’s the same position we were in at the start. You are my husband, and I can’t keep you.” He pressed Hank’s hand to his own chest. 

“You can’t stay,” Hank agreed. His hand rested mostly against the fabric of Connor’s cloak, but the edge of one finger brushed his bare skin. It wasn’t so frigid as usual. “But you visit. Couldn’t you visit more?”

“Leaving the underworld unmanned isn’t safe. We’ve been lucky so far.”

“Lucky?”

“Think of it this way,” Connor said. He tore up a handful of grass with his free hand, leaving behind a scraggly patch. “If something happens - a war, a sickness - many people die all at once.” Throwing the grass aside, he took Hank’s hand and touched it to the ground. Hank felt the magic inside him respond to Connor’s, flowing gladly through his fingertips down into the earth. Grass sprouted up under their hands. “If I’m there to control it, things run smoothly. I soothe the angrier souls, I make sure they all get where they belong. If i’m not...”

Hank pictured a field covered in bare patches, a world affected by swathes of undead seeping unseen from the underworld and back to their old lives, haunting loved ones - hurting them, even.

“You would fix it,” he said.

“I would. But it might take years.”

“And more people would die.”

Connor nodded. He didn’t look so desolate as the day before - sadder, maybe, but in a resolute sort of way. “I don’t regret this,” he said, squeezing Hank’s hand. “I never could. Still, it was... impulsive. And it hurts more than I thought it would.” 

At least he admitted it.

Above them, leaves rustled. Some animal living in the trunk made a quick chittering sound, and birdsong carried across the valley in a series of unmatched choruses. Connor left his hand on top of Hank’s, and it felt... right. They belonged together, Hank at Connor’s side in the underworld, consort to the lord of the dead, and Connor at Hank’s here. He suited spring better than Hank did, even with his cold gazes and mercurial moods. Eternally young and beautiful, as Hank would always be greying. 

“You can’t stay,” Hank said again. “Neither can I. But...”

Connor sighed as if he knew what was coming next. “I don’t know that you can think of something I haven’t.” He smiled ruefully. “I’ve thought about this a lot.”

“You helped me make this happen.” Hank waved a hand. “It wasn’t innate knowledge, I had to teach you. But it works. What if you could arrange the same thing back home?”

“An apprentice?” Connor laughed, shaking his head, but Hank took hold of his uncovered shoulder. The clasp of the cloak bit into his hand.

“Yes.”

“Who would come work with me? The other gods hate me, in case you’ve forgotten, and they all have their own concerns. Most of their jobs aren’t seasonal.”

Hank couldn’t decide if that was an insult or not. It must have shown in his face. Connor visibly softened, looking guilty. 

It was easy to forgive him, and forget it. 

“Does it have to be a god?”

“I told you what happened when I first arrived in the underworld. They tried to rip me apart. It wasn’t until I became part of them that things got easier.“

“Part of them,” Hank repeated. 

“Not quite dead, not quite alive.” Connor grimaced. “It’s why you ate the pomegranate. It didn’t kill you-“

“Clearly.”

“But,” he continued, “it put you somewhere in-between. That’s why you see them better now, why they would listen to you with time.”

"Undead, almost. Like you. That doesn't solve our problem, though."

"No," Connor said. "It doesn't."

They were silent again. Hank turned what Connor had said over in his mind, on the verge of something - maybe not feasible, maybe it wouldn't work at all, but it was something. 

"You're thinking."

Hank pulled away from the nudge to his ribs. Connor dug in again, almost tickling him, his bony elbow hitting a sensitive spot.

"So?"

"This is a collaborative conversation. It’s cheating if you're not voicing your thoughts out loud, not to mention dangerous."

"How are my thoughts dangerous?"

Connor smiled a little, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "You thought to marry me when I was ready to mourn you. It’s only thanks to you that we have this problem at all."

It was true. He meant it lovingly, but it was true. 

Hank shrugged. "I don't know if this is possible," he said as a preface.

Connor shrugged back.

"You said, before, that..." Hank scratched his head, scrubbing through his hair. "Shit, I feel ridiculous suggesting it. But you said Cole was different. That I'd made him different, somehow."

"He's changed, yes. Whether it's through your direct influence, because you ate food of the underworld, because he's a demigod, or some combination of the three, he isn't..." Connor drummed his fingers on one bare knee. "He's not static. Not like most spirits."

"What does that mean for him? Is he growing?"

"Not in the traditional sense. Aging... perhaps. He isn't going at the rate a live child would, but I've noticed over time that he seems to have gotten a little taller." Catching up to himself, Connor gave Hank a sharp look. "Why?"

"Is it possible... I mean, we'd ask him if it was something he wanted. If it were even a thing that could happen. But could he... I don't know, train under you? Learn to take on some responsibilities?"

Connor's mouth hung open, his brows furrowed. "Your son, Hank."

"I said it was ridiculous."

"I'm not-" Connor closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. The gears turning in his head were loud as a loose wagon wheel. "He's a boy. It's too much."

"Too much for him now," Hank agreed. "But with time, and some training - you'd be patient with him, probably more patient than I would have been when I taught him how to take on my work. It's what I had planned, when he got older. This is just a slight change."

"He might not actually be aging, Hank. He could be a little boy forever."

Hank thought of Cole roaming the fields, laughing and smiling, his missing tooth on display. A little boy forever - some parents might dream of such a thing. He hoped Connor was wrong. Cole deserved more. 

"Even if something changes, what if he doesn't want to do this? It isn't an easy job, Hank."

"Then he doesn't want it." Hank put his hand over Connor's, the fingers still drumming. They stilled under his grip, but he felt the muscles twitch ever so slightly. "We wouldn't force him."

"It would take years," Connor said, making a clear effort to keep his body still. He was bursting with energy, in a direction Hank couldn't be sure of yet, excited or nervous. Maybe both. "Long years, and what would he gain from it?"

"A purpose. Something to occupy a busy mind."

"And besides that?"

Hank put a little more weight on Connor's hand, pressing him into the dirt. "He'd make his father happy. When I was a boy, I would have moved mountains to make my father happy, and he wasn’t even truly mine." He smiled. "Cole would make you happy, too."

Connor frowned. "What am I to him? A jailer at worst, and an indifferent figure at best."

"Stop it. You're his protector. The man his father loves. Part of the family."

Wincing, Connor pulled his hand away. Hank let him go, but only for a few short moments. Then he scooted closer. "Would it hurt to ask? To try?"

"It might," Connor said. He didn't move away, but he angled his body so it touched as little of Hank as possible. "If I let myself hope and that hope was taken away-"

"Then we'd try something else." This time, when Hank reached for Connor’s face, Connor stayed. He stared down at the ground, his chin thrust forward petulantly, but he let Hank hold him.

“You talk me into the craziest things.”

Hank smiled. “Someone has to.”

“It frightens me. I would let you do anything.” 

Hank kissed the sensitive skin under Connor’s eyes, one at a time. Connor sagged a little harder into his hands, eyelashes fluttering. They brushed lightly against Hank’s skin. “I’d move mountains for you,” Hank said softly. “But only if you asked me to.”

Connor sighed. “You think Cole could love me?”

The question was so pitiful, so full of a timid hope, that Hank felt his heart crack under the weight. If he could open his chest and let Connor live inside it, he would.

“Yes,” Hank said. “He knows you. You keep him company when I can’t. And,” Hank added, “you’re good to me. Good for me. He’s young, but he sees that, too.”

Connor pushed through the ring of Hank’s hands and climbed into his lap, wrapping his arms around Hank’s shoulders and burying his face in Hank’s neck. Hank held him, tight as he could. He hoped Connor could feel his heart beating. He hoped he knew every beat was for him, for their life together, for their family.

“I’ll talk to him,” Connor said, muffled into Hank’s skin. “When I go back. Not - I won’t ask now.”

“No,” Hank agreed. “Plant the seeds for later.” 

Stroking Connor’s hair, sticking one hand under the cloak to rub at Connor’s naked side, Hank kissed his cheek. Connor seemed to unwind at the attention, going almost loose in Hank’s arms. Boneless, like a snake.

“Better?” he asked.

Connor gave Hank a final squeeze. “For now,” he said. Rolling off Hank’s lap, he fussed with his hair until it sat back in its proper place. Self-deprecatingly, he added, “I’ll find something else to be miserable about later.”

Hank shrugged. “Then we’ll talk it through, together. As many times as you need.” 

Connor gave Hank a dirty look. “How are you so good at this? All these... feelings.”

Laughing, Hank nudged Connor backwards until he was laying in the grass again, face up. “I’m not,” he said, touching Connor’s skin where it was bared to the sun. “You bring it out in me.” With a careless gesture, he flipped the cloak out of the way and revealed Connor’s cock, soft against his thigh. Connor squirmed a bit, wriggling playfully away from Hank’s hand as he pinched pale flesh right between two moles that looked almost like a love bite. 

“I thought you said you didn’t want to do this outside,” Connor protested.

Hank bent down and kissed the spot where he’d pinched, gently pressing his teeth along the moles and leaving an indentation that quickly faded. “I didn’t,” he said simply. “I’ve changed my mind.” 

No one disturbed them as Hank took Connor’s cock in his mouth, sucking him to full hardness. Connor held tightly to Hank’s hair, pulling him this way and that, his sweet face screwed up in pure, uncomplicated ecstasy. They thought of nothing but each other, for a while. When Hank brought his hand into play, spinning one finger around Connor’s entrance as he hollowed his cheeks, it was over. Connor came in his mouth, nearly crying, and Hank swallowed all of it gladly, thinking of the red seeds that made him Connor’s spouse. 

They didn’t get a great deal of work done that day. Passions flared at the worst moments, and any instant where Connor didn’t have his hands on Hank’s body seemed to be considered terribly wasteful. Hank didn’t mind, though he wished Connor hadn’t goosed him in front of a naiad. 

The matter wasn’t settled. Neither of them could quite shake off the lingering melancholy - but it felt better. They both felt better. As the end of Connor’s stay drew closer, Hank knew that mattered more to him than nearly anything else ever would. He would see Connor happy. 

Saying goodbye was as hard as ever. The process started more than a day before Connor actually had to go, while they were throwing something together for their morning meal. Connor hummed as he worked, his small smile entirely uncomplicated, and Hank realized that soon, he’d be gone. He tried to cover up the tears that sprang in his eyes, loathe to draw Connor back into melancholy, but one fell and hit the table. Connor saw the dark spot when he turned, and then he saw Hank’s face.

“Oh, Hank,” he said softly.

That made the crying worse. They held each other, Hank’s head buried in Connor’s stomach, Connor’s gentle hands in his hair. Contrary to his fears, Connor didn’t seem to become worse for Hank’s display of grief. He brightened up, like he was trying to love Hank out of it. That worried Hank, a little - but really, it was fine. He understood. He’d been walking Connor through sorrow since they came home, and he’d been glad to do it. Now Connor’s was taking his turn.

They walked, later, out to where the river ran. Sumo sniffed out the bear from before and her young ones, and they played together. Connor put his head on Hank’s shoulder, watching Sumo roll the biggest baby bear between his paws as his tail wagged. 

“It’s funny,” he said, tipping his nose into the space behind Hank’s ear. “They’ll be so much bigger by the time I come back. Nothing grows at home.”

“There’s your garden,” Hank said, mostly to be contrary. He didn’t expect Connor to kiss his neck, his breath rolling over Hank’s skin in an amused huff.

“You’re right,” he said. “I can’t forget the garden.”

They didn’t talk about Cole. Neither of them could say if he grew yet. 

At home, Connor drew Hank over him like a blanket and begged to have him inside. It was a pretty thing, the begging, so Hank rocked into him with gentle rolling waves, like water lapping at a shore. That didn’t last. Connor raked his nails over Hank’s back. The careful motions turned rough, desperate. They both left bruises and bite marks, things that would last even after they separated, and if Hank cried again, Connor made no mention of it. Hank came first, lost in Connor’s wandering hands and tight heat and teeth. All Connor needed was Hank’s body on his, collapsed so there was no room between them. He rocked up into Hank’s belly and spilled, leaving a mess. When Hank started to pull out, Connor grunted and tugged him back in.

“Leave it,” he commanded. 

Hank left it. 

In the morning, Hank found he had slipped out during the night and left behind an awful mess. He groaned, feeling covered in residual evidence of their sex and a little disgusted, but before he moved, he looked up. Connor was still under him, and still sleeping. 

This was the last morning they had for now. Fall would come before he knew it, and spring would come again in the same way, and that was fine. It hurt him to think about their separation, and that was fine, too. They had chosen this, and what came with it, and they would be okay. 

Hank stayed there until Connor woke, counting his heartbeats. Even after Hank felt Connor’s breathing change, after Connor’s arms came around his shoulders, neither of them moved more or spoke. They clung to the dawn, and pretended the shadows didn’t creep across the floor. 

Connor wouldn't let Hank walk him to the edge of his lands. Putting off their goodbye was only prolonging it, he said, and he put a gentle hand on Hank's chest when he tried to follow him out the door.

"Could we write?" Hank asked, a little desperately. "Send messages?" 

Connor furrowed his brow. "I've never tried it," he said. "How I'd find someone who can cross into the living realm..." At Hank's expression, Connor shook his head. "It's a good idea. We'll find something."

Hank took Connor's hand from his chest and lifted the palm to his lips. "We'll be all right," he said to Connor. He intended it as something of a question, too, looking for that little bit of reassurance even as he tried to give it away.

Connor understood him. He cupped Hank's face in his hands and kissed him, breathing his air for the last time. Not the last time - Hank hated that thought, and shooed it away as soon as it crossed his mind. The last time in a while. They'd see each other again soon, sooner than if Connor had left him on the first day of spring.

Still, Hank felt the familiar crack in his heart when Connor pulled away. He took a step backward, then another. Hank couldn't reach him anymore. 

This was really goodbye.

"Tell Cole I love him," he said, putting a hand over his heart to keep it from beating out of his chest.

Connor nodded. "I will. I'll - we'll talk. He and I. Soon." 

Hank bit his lip. There was only one thing left to say, but it meant their visit together was truly over, and it took him too long to work up the nerve he needed for it. By the time he leaned out of the doorway, Connor had nearly crested the hill.

"I love you!" he shouted. 

Connor turned. It was too far to see for sure, but either Connor was crying or the light played tricks on Hank's eyes. It didn't matter which.

"I love you!" Connor shouted back, lifting a hand in farewell.

Then he was gone. Spring was in full bloom, and Hank was alone. 

The first month was quiet. Hank answered prayers, communed with some of the humans who truly needed him, and spent time with the nymphs when they requested his company. He thought of Connor - not constantly, but often. He imagined it was like missing a limb. He adjusted - he had to - but that absence was always there, when he looked for it.

In the midst of a spring storm, when Hank was thinking of the night in the grove and feeling sorry for himself, Sumo sprang up from where he slept on the floor of Hank’s room. Before Hank could stop him, the dog bounded out of the room and, just as quickly, threw himself out the front door. Hank went to watch him go, his eyebrow raised. The noise Sumo made blended into the thunder, each footfall like a miniature earthquake, and then he was gone, too. 

Hank didn’t worry too much. Sumo was his dog in a sense, but he’d been his own beast before Hank took him in. He could manage, whatever he was doing.

Still, when he didn’t come back for three days, Hank began to worry. He was lonelier than ever with every member of his family gone. Besides, Sumo hadn’t been away so long since before Cole was born. 

Hank didn’t like remembering that since now Cole lived in the underworld, Sumo had no reason to stay. It sat with him anyway, lingering at the back of his mind all through the day and into the night. 

The next afternoon, Hank heard the barking before he saw the dog. He went outside to wait, laughing when Sumo came bounding down the hill like a puppy many times smaller than he actually was. In the dog’s exuberance, he nearly knocked Hank to the ground, but it was good - joyful. He might have missed the slim cord tied around Sumo’s neck if Sumo wasn’t determined that Hank see it. The dog bent his head, twisted from side to side, and barked noisily until Hank fumbled for the knot under his chin. Sumo slobbered as he worked at it.

“Ugh,” Hank said. “Good boy.” 

Once the cord was undone, a scroll fell free from where it had sat, tangled in Sumo’s fur, and landed right in Hank’s hands.

“Where did you get this?” Hank asked. He thought he already knew.

Sumo wagged his tail, pushing his head under Hank’s hand for a few more pats. 

As he unrolled the scroll, Hank cast around him looking for something to throw for Sumo as a reward. Instead, Sumo curled around Hank’s feet and settled, watching him with his big brown eyes. “Does he want a reply?” Hank asked, half joking. Sumo rumbled in response. 

The handwriting was Connor’s, just as he’d expected. He hadn’t written much, only a little more than two paragraphs, but Hank pored over each word several times over.

“I spoke to Cole,” it said. “He’s young, and didn’t fully understand, but he’s already started learning. We can’t say what will happen later - he might change his mind. But you were right. It’s better when we have hope.”

Hank smiled and tucked the scroll into his belt. Sumo cocked his head. 

“I’ll write back later,” he said. “You’re a good boy, Sumo. Thank you for this.” 

Sumo grumbled in response and rolled onto his back. Bending down, Hank ran his hands through the fur on his belly. In a few minutes, Sumo heaved a heavy, contented sigh, and then he fell asleep where he lay. Hank stepped over him gingerly on the way back into the house. 

The seasons were going to change soon. The days were getting hotter, zinnias and marigolds started to bloom, and if Connor was going to visit him for a few days during the summer, Hank needed to get a few things done early.


End file.
